The Angel Gabriel from Hell Came
by I Hypocrite
Summary: Lenore was the strangest, most alive person he'd ever met. Of course, then Gabriel fell in love with her. Funny how life works. Gabriel loves her, Sylar wants to rip out her brain and take her ability. And they both have to compete with Mohinder...
1. In the Underground

The Angel Gabriel from Hell Came

by I, Hypocrite

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Heroes, and I don't own Gabriel/Sylar (however much I wish I did... for Fanfiction as well as... other purposes ;)**

**For those of you who have any background with the Church, yes. My title **_**is**_** taken from the hymn, but "from Heaven came" doesn't seem to fit Sylar too well...**

**Okay. This isn't my first fic, but it **_**is**_** my first fic under this name. I don't usually write this kind of stuff (ie, T-rated), but it just seemed to fit with the character. And I KNOW that my writing sounds bad, but I'm too lazy to write 2****nd**** drafts (the shame! the shame!) so this will have to do. My book is probably going to be insanely cliché, but let's admit it! As unrespectable as it is, EVERYONE LOVES READING CLICHÉ! (Though not MarySue... this might be a little -- or a lot -- MarySue) And I've never tried it before, so this is going to be Mr. Toad's Wild Ride for me. (I picked that up somewhere. A book. I dunno. Funny that I should use it, because I only rode Mr. Toad's Wild Ride once, when I was about 4, and couldn't stop screaming. I mean, come on, it was CREEPY.)**

**Just a brief note before I start **_**Gabriel**_**... This first chapter takes place in the NYC underground for a bit. I want to make it known that I have never been on the New York metro, much less even been to New York, so if you have and I make a mistake, I apologize. You can ignore it or send me a PM or whatever you like, just be aware.**

**So here goes. Gabriel, do those fictional pre-book stretches or whatever you do before your cue gets here. Now... go.**

Chapter One

In the Underground

Gabriel Gray was in serious need of a frappucino. Who cared if it contained half the calories he should have in a single day? He was never the sort to count calories anyway, but he distinctly recalled overhearing the frap fact on Oprah or Ellen or some other ridiculous female talk show he'd normally never be caught dead watching if he hadn't been channel surfing last week.

It didn't matter anyway; he hadn't eaten in four days due to some seethingly enviable rich fellow had come into Gray & Sons with a trashed grandfather clock, proffering a seethingly tempting sum if Gabriel could get it back in order by Wednesday. He did it. Unfortunately, it was trashed almost beyond recognition, so he'd given all time that would normally go into stuffing his face into repairing the clock. He'd hardly slept as well, and even the nineteen-hour nap that followed his payment didn't entirely blow away the grogginess. For that, he needed Starbucks. Serious Starbucks. He could spare a few extra calories to make up four days' consciousness.

Gabriel stepped and stumbled tiredly over the familiar slant of the subway steps, as the nearest Starbucks was a short Metro ride from his side of town. Thirty-one stony stairs unfolding themselves to the filthy, grime-infested splendor of the underground. Stepped carefully over the crack at the bottom, the same crooked line he'd avoided since he was a little kid accompanying his father on a trip to the supply store. In all honesty, superstition was a game he didn't often play, but he had memories. Memories of his early school years, unpleasant, of the children on the playground chanting at Gabriel Gray, known more commonly as "Mommy's Boy". _Step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back_, they would chant, and much to their amusement, Gabriel would follow the rhyme, hoping to spare even the slightest chance of hurting his mother. It had become more habit than a tradition of any real meaning; he hadn't spoken to his mom in quite a while. When she'd called the day he turned thirty-three to wish him happy birthday. He'd been a little rushed then, trying to finish a 1984 Rolex before closing up shop, and he'd barely had time to converse.

Feeling a tad loaded from the generosity of the customer with the grandfather clock, he tossed a quarter to the hobo who occasionally took up residence at that specific corner of the underground, the filthy man catching it between his palms and boredly displaying two rows of discolored teeth before shoving the silvery wealth down his frayed sleeping bag. Gabriel almost flinched, his instincts flooded with rot. If the man had been a clock, he'd be hours off, maybe even broken. One of those cheap digital watches found in a cereal box, or one that was ninety-nine cents at the Texaco counter, pedestaled unworthily along with the M&Ms and Camel Lights. Knowing very well that the hobo had no more interest in chatting than he, Gabriel shoved his hands in his pockets without a word, only then noticing that the metro had come to a stop and was nearly finished collecting passengers. He made a run for it, skidding into the rapidly closing doors with a swipe of his MetroCard.

Luckily for him, three o'clock in the afternoon wasn't a busy time on Thursdays, so God granted him a seat instead of attempting a standing balancing act with a metal pole, even if he was wedged between two large Saudi women who apparently hadn't bathed in a while. The metro jerked forward, gaining speed and allowing him to catch his breath, rubbing his hands for warmth in the frigid January air. As Gabriel gruffly upturned the collar of his trench coat, partly because of the cold but mainly because of the smell, he couldn't help but immerse himself in a favorite hobby of his.

_She_, Gabriel mused, glancing at a businesslike woman in the corner, _is a Quartz watch._ Then, glancing at her three-inch heels and ridiculously elaborate handbag, thought some more on the subject. _One of those women's bracelet watches that can hardly stay on your hand, but slide up and down the arm. Decorative, but tiny numbers on the watch face; more showy than practical._

A teenage boy sat a few seats down from him, carelessly adorned in black and pimply, with a suspicious bulge to his jacket pocket. _He's a Rolex look-alike from some pawnshop. Impressive, and sneaky if he can get away with it. That balding chap he's next to is definitely a digital. _Gabriel looked down at his watch. _Like mine. Connected by radar to the international space station so that it always has the right time._

_That lady there..._ He stopped, examined her more closely. _That girl... what is she?_ Indeed, what. A spectacle, if nothing else. _She's holding a parasol. Why the hell has she got a parasol?_ Flowering atop her body, pale and petite, bloomed the pure white parasol. She gave it a twirl, and the twirl entranced him. He couldn't stop staring, and she, in return, offered a surplus of staring material. _My god, she's got a waistcoat, too. With tails!_ The waistcoat appeared to be made of silk, cascading over her everyday mufti. Everyday, that is, except for the socks, which were purple stripes that led all the way up to her knees.

Gabriel glanced up at her face the instant she glanced up at his. Immediately, his instincts were given a sharp jolt unlike he'd ever experienced before. He sensed her internal gears ticking, ticking, louder than he'd heard ever before. Something about they way they worked unnerved him in a way he was fairly certain was good, but he wasn't too sure. It _seemed_ good, but the enervating feel he'd gotten from the one glance from her was too powerful for him to be sure.

She smiled at him. _Smiled!_ Grinned, really, a broad, stunning grin that dazzled him with the same whiteness of the parasol. In greeting, she tipped the tweed hat atop her auburn scalp... was it auburn? He couldn't quite give it a color. At the moment he was sure it was brown, he then thought it was strawberry blond, and then red. With every twitch of her head, the light hit a facet of her hair in a different way, making him more charmed than ever. _Oh, God, help, she's staring at me. She must think I'm a creep, ogling her like this._ In an attempt to salvage his reputation, he looked away and immediately began to better occupy his thoughts.

_Quick! Quick, think of something... Her_ _as a clock. She'd be a Mickey Mouse watch._

A Mickey Mouse watch, Gabriel? Have you gone absolutely mad?

_Er, sorry. First thing that came off my head._

You can do better than that, you idiot.

_Sorry... a church clock tower. One that chimes on the hour._

Sounds nice, Gabe, but can you back it up? Of course you can't. You can't just make something up and hope it passes; you'll have to do a lot better than that.

_How about a... a pocket watch?_ For the lady had just pulled one out of her waistcoat pocket, clicked it open, and glanced at it intently before whipping it back into her pocket. _3:02 and twelve seconds_, Gabriel thought, without having to look at his own. Why he even kept it, he didn't know. The comfort of a time-telling weight on his wrist made him feel a little more at ease all hours of the day.

Almost as if on cue, the metro began slowing as soon as the lady snapped the black button closed over her waistcoat pocket. Gabriel anchored his feet firmly to the ground in an attempt to not budge up against either of the rancid Saudi women. It worked. The moment the metro stopped, Gabriel appeared to be untouched by both sources of the stench, and, having dealt with this sort of situation before and knowing how it could turn out, sat waiting while the women stood first then got a considerable distance away before he dared stand and walk out.

When he did, he was welcomed by a much more pleasant sight and sound; a steel drum player had occupied himself by a wall near the exit, banging a tasteful rhythm onto his various instruments. As Gabriel watched, the drummer immersed himself into a rhythmic frenzy that attracted a small crowd tossing coins into a maroon suitcase he'd set up in front of his underground stage. It was quite a sight, the suitcase; one could no longer see the bottom. It was possible he'd been playing in such a craze since dawn, as it was nearly full to the brim with a cascade of copper and circular silvery stuff.

As the man drummed out a slow, soft, finish to his playing, the small crowd gave a smattering of applause. The drummer stood out next to his instruments and took a slight bow, but had barely stood when a spectator invaded the clearing the crowd had circled around. She waved to the drummer, who waved back.

_My god, _Gabriel thought, staring at the girl. _It's her._

The lady from the subway appeared to know the drummer, because she walked up to him and they slapped hands nonchalantly, as if the movement was nearly worn out from years of practice. The crowd could barely hear what they were saying, but Gabriel caught most of the brief conversation.

"Hey, Chaz," the lady smiled, and glanced at the suitcase. "Looks like you're doing good today."

Chaz, the drummer, shrugged. "All right."

"Do you mind if I have a go?" she asked in a low voice that only a handful of the crowd heard, including Gabriel Gray.

"Only if I get to keep the money," Chaz grinned.

The lady sighed, but not unpleasantly. More of a _there-he-goes-again_, or a _what-else-can-I-do?_ sigh. "Agreed." Chaz tossed her the drumsticks, and in exchange, the girl handed him her parasol, neatly closed and narrow. She took position behind the quartet of steel drums, massaging the tips of the drumsticks as if to warm them up, and began.

The rhythm began softly, a slow pattern like the gentle gait of a horse's hoof beats on the thin surface of one drum. It was pleasant, if nothing else, but carried the easy buzz of the moment when one is nearly asleep. That was soon remedied. The beat grew faster, still unfaltering and familiar, the same friend in a speedier skin.

Then the cycle changed, a whole new soul emerging from the hollow depths of the drums. Menacing, eerie, ominous, but confident. The rhythm knew what it was doing, the beat too casual with its power. _I know I've got you cornered,_ it hissed through the sound waves rippling at ear-level across the underground. _I can take all the time I need. You can't escape me._

The drumsticks banged now on a new drum, a much lighter sound, like the dark air in witness to the birth of this villain. All-seeing. All-knowing, but invisible. The first drum was played on again, faster than ever before and wilder, too. Rhythms so intricate sprang up from the drum that it was more like a maze than a song. Then the dark drum came into play, fighting the first drum back into silence, but the first drum wouldn't relinquish its dance. They fought, battled a deep, dark and crashing cacophony over the air, mounting in excitement and life. The two lunged for each other, noise against noise in an aching, biting, thrashing war that tumbled and tumbled higher up into the soul

and stillness.

No noise. A pause, not a declaration of silence; the air was still thick. The lady had stopped, her hands poised above the drums, and Gabriel noticed tiny pearls of sweat above her delicate brow. She sensed his gaze and swiveled her head slightly to meet it. It seemed selfish of her, leaving the rhythmic war up at a standstill like this, the crowd holding their breath, waiting to hear the beat of life...

Still staring at Gabriel, the lady landed a blow with her bare hand, no drumstick, against the first drum. It was a still sound, and the crowd was unsure of its meaning. She hit the drum again, louder this time. A soft but undeniably victorious battle cry. _I won_, it whispered, hardly daring to believe it. She hit the drum one last time, the sound it made now soft again, lower, and heartbreaking. Crying quietly at the end of the symphonic battle, the drum sobbed. _I won_.

The crowd exploded.

Roars of applause erupted from all the spectators, a cascade of loose change making its way into the suitcase. The mob was bigger; it seemed now that the whole of the subway had come to witness this amazing four-drum orchestra of war, the composer and conductor standing lifeless in the middle of it. Still and staring at Gabriel Gray.

He walked forward slowly entering the clearing, and knelt. He removed a five-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it in the suitcase, surrounded by an airborne shower of nickels and dimes. Then he found his feet again, stood, and walked over to the lady. From his height, he gazed down at her, brow furrowed, as though not sure why the world turned, his ears tuning out the sound of a hundred cheering spectators.

"Do you want to go get a coffee?" he rasped.

The girl looked up at him, eyes of the January wind outside. She nodded. Without further looking at each other, they parted the sea of people and waded out, up the stairs of the subway into the brisk air.

Gabriel glanced down at his shoes. They were brown. How odd. He glanced over at her shoes. White. Odder still. Snow. Clouds. Fog. Very bright light. Odd.

She stared up at the sky. It was a blue-grey, sponged hues of violet occasionally visible if you tried hard enough not to look for them. It was amazing. She glanced over at the man she was walking with. His hair was dark. He was cleanly shaved. His brow was thick, straight and serious. Even more amazing. He hadn't smiled yet, but had the prepared, obscured hint of it on the corner of his mouth. Amazing.

"I'm Lenore," she offered.

"Gabriel," said he.

The nearest Starbucks was a block ahead. On they walked.

"Nice watch," she said.

**I really have mixed opinions about this chapter. Personally, I thought the ending was a little weak, but I guess I'll have to make a better one for the next chapter. I'm not quite sure what I think of it yet... But perhaps I'll make up my mind if I have some more opinions...? (HINT: that means leave a review please! I don't care if you liked it or not, I just want an opinion. Several opinions, if possible. wink, wink)**


	2. Comparison

**DISCLAIMER: If I owned Heroes, would I really be writing on Fanfiction? I'd be shoving all this chapter into a script in which is so mind-blowing that Zach Quinto earned billions of dollars and would never have to lift a pinky for the rest of his life. Except for filming.**

**I've considered renaming this as **_**Every Serial Killer Needs a Girlfriend**_**. :P Just kidding. But it is true, though, isn't it?**

**I mention a certain frappucino in this chapter. Please note that I've never had one. I also mention Philadelphia, but I've actually been there! Wahoo! For once I know what I'm writing about! I'm going to be there for nearly a month this summer, so if you're in town, look me up and we'll have a seven-hour-long discussion about how fascinating a certain serial killer is! hehe...**

**Leave a review, please, so I know how much my take on Gabriel and his much-needed girlfriend is loved or despised.**

Chapter Two

Comparison

Gabriel sipped at his long-awaited frap, peering under his eyebrows at Lenore. Now in the warm café, two spots of rose had blossomed over her fair cheeks, making her look more like a delicate porcelain doll than a flesh-and-blood woman. Coffee apparently wasn't a favorite of hers; she now was sucking up hot chocolate through a red and white coffee stirrer. "Were they out of straws?" he smiled.

"Of course they weren't," Lenore grinned, and took another sip. "I just like coffee stirrers." Amused in anticipation of her explanation, Gabriel held back the question_ why_, figuring she'd explain soon enough. Indeed, she did. "They're so thin, it takes longer to drink anything. I like things to last." Gabriel thought about this – not too hard, though – and took another sip of frappucino. "So what do you do for a living?" she asked.

"Well, I..." he began, then stopped, contemplating whether or not to tell her. After all, Lenore... Well, she was amazing, wasn't she? He was already beneath her simply by her shining aura, the way she carried herself: like a queen in disguise. He was already unworthy enough without her knowing about his job. He was just such a nerd.

Lenore's pocketwatch was ticking away, concealed in the silky folds of her waistcoat, but that didn't change the fact that he could still sense it. With every second, it sent invisible currents through the air, two minutes and eleven seconds slow. It was driving him insane.

"Gabriel? What do you do?" she repeated.

It was too much. "Let me see your watch."

Lenore frowned, but only slightly. It seemed the rest of her was very nearly smiling. "What?"

"Your pocketwatch, Lenore," he repeated, extremely serious and urgent. He held out his hand impatiently. "I need to see it." Once the pocketwatch was in his hand, along with a few dubious glances from Lenore, he was immersed in the feverish drive to set its time right. He twiddled with the knob at the side to set the lost two minutes forward, then let it stay that way for a few brief seconds. With his work done, he handed the watch back to her, now in perfect time.

"That's what I do."

A thin, curved eyebrow on Lenore's delicate face was raised in question, so he explained. "Your pocketwatch was exactly two minutes and eleven seconds slow. It's a knack I have, knowing when things are broken. Or... malfunctioning." He shrugged. "So I fix watches, you see."

"Ah!" Lenore exclaimed. "But how do you know the right time? I mean, I didn't see you even glance once at your watch while you were fixing mine."

"I just know," was his reply. "It's pretty much inexplicable."

Slowly, one corner lifing before the other, an awed smile crept up from her pink lips. _Dimples,_ he thought. _She has dimples. That's... cute. Insanely._ "That's amazing," she said. "How you just _do_ that. You..." She shook her head. "You're something else."

Gabriel couldn't help but duck his head in order to hide the sky smile the compliment had caused. Quickly, he led the conversation to her. "So what do _you _do?"

"I'm a director," she replied, no shame at all in contrast to him.

Shock. "What, on Broadway?"

It was enough, those three words, to make her laugh out loud. The laugh was, in short, real, if not the truest sound he'd ever heard. Gabriel had never in his life come across a laugh so genuine, so unafraid to be happy and lay any secrets on the floor. Not the most beautiful, certainly, but nothing is entirely beautiful to the core, and only those who face being real unmasked can name this laughter of their brave. "No, not Broadway," she chuckled, "though that is my eventual plan. I'm actually pulling together an audition in Philadelphia for a production of _Cats_." She then suppressed him with a thoughtful gaze, studying his face. "Please tell me you dance."

_Dance? Is she serious? _Gabriel shook his head.

"What a shame," she sighed, but with a smile. "You look like you'd be a fantastic Mister Mistoffelees. Sadly, he usually has to be the best dancer on the cast."

"You look like an analogue clock," he commented, unable to stop himself in time to shut up, "hung on a cluttered wall. Lots of pictures, shelves with all kinds of useless knickknacks. You'd be painted like marble, but no numbers on the face. You'd be one of those fancy ones with diamonds instead."

"How do you figure?" She seemed deeply curious, wondering how on earth she'd ever be compared to this clock. He relished unveiling the explanation.

"Analogues may not be high tech, and they may not even be right all the time, but they're classic. You'd be old-fashioned as a clock, up there on the busy wall. The only part up there that would make any sense, like the eye of the storm." What was this? He didn't even realize what his lips were saying, and yet his ears recognized it as the truth regardless. "As for the diamonds, they still tell time. It just means that numbers don't matter, because every second is precious."

He felt some pleasure in the flaming blush that horizontally flurried itself across Lenore's face, grateful knowing he at least had some leftover experience from his late twenties in knowing how to make a woman feel appreciated. By the look of her, she must have been in her late twenties herself. _Cute. Unbelievably cute. _"So you're a Philly girl," he smiled, changing subject.

"Uh, yes. Born and bred, actually."

"What brings you to New York?"

"Well," she began, and pulled the combined fullness of her hair over her right shoulder, nestling against the soft white flesh of her lower neck. "I have this cousin Gillian who's in charge of a law firm up here, and he took off for Australia during December for a vacation." She settled back into her chair, that curly bunch of hair unraveling, seeping unseen across her back, and took another strained sip of cocoa. "Anyhow, he offered me his apartment, and it's pretty nice, so I took it. Just until I get some of this pre-show business done. You know, meeting with costumers, dancers, musicians. Research. _Cats_ is one of the most demanding shows out there in every aspect." Now she leaned casually forward in her seat, fidgeting with the paper centerpiece blaring an espresso ad. "But I kind of like New York. Philly's nice, but it's not this..." She stared up into the dim, orange lamplight. "Not nearly this sophisticated, this... this _alive_. Philadelphia's beautiful, but so old. So much room to grow, but nothing to help it move along."

"I know."

"Do you? Have you been to Philly much?"

"I was thinking in a metaphorical sense. My life," he explained, and immediately decided that if he'd said it to anyone else, he would have regretted it. Inexplicably, there was this great, shining _something_ in her that forced... no, not forced. _Inspired_ him to trust this Lenore. Her face encouraged him to continue. To satisfy her, he did. "I always hoped... No." This underlying feeling in his gut translated into a need for her to know absolute truth. From this moment on, he'd protect her from lies. "I always thought I was special. No hoping at all involved; I just knew. I had potential to dedicate myself to anything, become everything that wasn't expected of me because I was raised to be so plain.

"My father was a watchmaker, so I was expected to be one, too. When he died, I'd just turned... I think twenty-two. So I canceled my classes at NYU to take over the shop." Gabriel took up his cup for a long gulp of frap, but he'd already swallowed it all. He swung his cup around from side to side for a bit, watching the dregs swims circles in their soggy graveyard at the bottom of the cup. "I figured I could always go back and finish college anytime, but then the shop became so demanding, and..." He shook his head as though it would make the memory go flying out his ears. "And I didn't want to disgrace my dad by closing his shop. So I stuck with it.

"But my mom... She was always pressuring me to do something with my life, not be the bloody watchmaking son of a watchmaker. She'd get angry sometimes. Very angry. She just didn't understand that I had to uphold my dad's honor, cause she sure as hell didn't. I wanted more than anything to become something special, but all that potential was gone now. I'd buried myself: Gabriel the watchmaker. I had doubts of still being special, and my mom didn't help at all." The watchmaker shrugged and quoted the girl across the table from him. "So much room to grow, but nothing to help it move along."

Lenore still seemed to be processing this, deciding on what to say to this speech. As he glanced at her, he felt inspired to say more. "What I wish I had more than anything, you have in spades."

She looked shocked. "What's that?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're special." He looked right into her icy eyes when he said this, wanting to make sure she understood everything he was saying. "You're more unique than anyone I've ever met, so unafraid of the world. How do you do it?"

"The same way you do watchmaking," she said, just as serious. "That's what I do. I just know how. It's pretty inexplicable. I'm no different than you, and we're each just as important in the world, you and I. The same painting in different colors." She leaned forward and looked more deeply at him, penetratingly. Their eyes locked, a feeling of absolute equality swimming between them, connecting them together. "Two watches made by the same company tell the same time, they're just different models."

And right then and there in the middle of Starbucks, she kissed him. Front and center. They didn't even know each other's last names, and here was she, pressing lips up against his as though they'd been leading up to it for months. An old lady sipping at her tea goggled at them, appalled. A teenage girl being dragged along by her mother glanced at them when her mother wasn't looking and wished her boyfriend would kiss her like that sometime. Lenore's hot cocoa didn't notice anything, being inanimate, and Lenore herself didn't seem at all bothered that she'd just gotten to first base with a man who was very nearly a stranger in front of forty-some people, most of whom were quite nosily sneaking a peek.

Through his fogged glasses, Gabriel acknowledged that she was a fantastic kisser.


	3. Memorizing

**DISCLAIMER: Heroes so owns you! Sadly, only Tim Kring can own Heroes.**

**This and the beginning of the next chapter are what you'd call... T-rated. Sorry if you don't like it, but I'm not explicit. Your eyes won't be burned, I promise. Unless you go swimming in gasoline and then go out for a smoke, but I don't think your eyes would matter that much if you're enveloped in flame.**

**Drop a review, if you please. If not, I'm hardcore. I'll deal. Meaning I'll hunt you down with a machete... hehehe...**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Three

Memorizing

"You want some bacon?"

Gabriel practically frothed at the idea. "Lenore, I haven't eaten in four days. I'd assassinate Ghandi for some bacon."

"So that's a yes?"

"Stop torturing me! Yes! Bacon! Now!"

Lenore laughed and closed the fridge, the cold meat in her hands. "Normally I'd offer something a little more low-maintenance," she explained, fishing out a skillet from the cupboard, "but my cousin's wife is a chef, and I can't pronounce half the stuff in that fridge, so eating it's out of the question."

After Starbucks, they'd agreed to go for a walk through New York, having gone several blocks when it began snowing harshly. It being rush hour and the subway being at least a half hour walk without the snow, Gabriel decided to ditch going home and take up Lenore's offer to wait it out at her apartment for a while. In the meantime, he was ravenous and Lenore seemed, in general, to like eating (though it didn't show in her figure), so she'd taken it upon herself to whip up a dazzling feast mainly comprised of Ramen noodles, bacon, and grape juice. He was a secret connoisseur of grape juice, usually a humiliating fact, but Lenore didn't seem at all bothered it when he told her. Ever since the kiss at Starbucks three hours ago, they'd reached a sort of comfortable territory that most people reach weeks or even months into a relationship.

He leaned against the marble counter top, gazing out the window. All he could see was white out there. But then again, they were eleven stories up. Maybe it was less harsh further down, closer to the gas fumes and endless body heat that usually melt snow. Gazing on the other side of the window, inside the room, was a sight just as white, only less cold. He didn't know how rich people could stand having kitchens so white. Personally, he felt like a lab rat. "I always wanted a green kitchen," he remarked, mostly to himself, but Lenore was listening.

"Green?" Her voice was surprised over the chattering spittle of the bacon. "Why? Green is the color of mold; you want a moldy kitchen, Gabe? Hardly what you'd call sanitary for the one room in your house devoted to food."

He laughed, a sound he didn't make often. It sounded strange and alien to him, but the rolling noise it made in his throat was pleasant. He decided he liked laughing as he did just that, wrapping his arms around Lenore's waist from behind and kissing her on the top of her head. "Green just seemed like a nice color for a kitchen. I don't even like it that much."

"What do you like?"

"Gray." Like his last name, but he didn't tell her that. Last names were so formal, and he liked having all that aside. "Not white, not black, but a place in the middle. Nothing is exact, nothing 100 on either side, but a nice no man's land. You're always safe with gray." He took a sip of his grape juice, hoping it didn't stain his mouth purple. "But it's too drab for a whole room."

"I know what you mean," she said, flipping over a piece of bacon on the stove. "Ever since I was a little girl, I hated yellow. Too in-your-face cheery. Plus it made me nervous. But I always wanted a yellow kitchen despite that, and now I have one back in Philly. I honestly don't know how Gillian can stand having this kitchen; it's hell just cleaning up after."

Gabriel absently flicked a speck of dust away from the counter. "So why are we talking about kitchens?"

"You brought it up," she laughed. "Maybe the fact that we're in one had something to do with that, but we won't be in here for long." The bacon was now finished, piled up on two plates with an equal share of Ramen on each. "I insist we eat in the living room. I've got a phobia about this white everywhere, but Gillian at least had the foresight to have a stain-resistant couch."

Stain-resistant it was, and black. Ideal. Very comfortable, too, he noted, as he settled in it next to Lenore, in very unseasonable shorts and T-shirt. She'd taken off the waistcoat and purple socks, the parasol set down at the door. Without them, she looked very... normal. Not normal/boring – she was still fascinating – but looking very much like any other girl he might run into on the street.

Barefoot, she sat cross-legged and glanced at the television. It was paused on a frame of what he assumed was _Cats_... everyone on the screen was in painted Spandex and had a tail.

"Research?" he asked.

"I've been watching it nonstop for two weeks," she explained. "See him in the black, over there?" At Gabriel's head shaking, she sighed and pressed fast forward on the remote, then paused it again on a better shot of the black cat, doing one of those insane jumping jacks that involves touching toes midair. "That's Mister Mistoffelees."

He laughed again, enjoying the vibration of his throat. "If you think I could do that, you'd better think on that some more." Though the black cat, smiling through a face of thick make-up, was very familiar. With a few more moments of staring, Gabriel realized who it reminding him of: himself. Lenore's remark back in Starbucks was right. If he removed the horn-rimmed glasses from his own face, he might look a trifle like that.

Lenore seemed to notice that, too, and crawled over to him from her side of the couch. She was extremely slow, making her seem all the more sensuous, which didn't prove fortunate for Gabriel. Having a sexy woman prowl over to him was doing strange things to his mind. In the pit of his stomach, it felt like someone was holding a match to a stick of dynamite; the threat of the explosion caused him to feel the blood pumping against his skin from the underside, pulsing in places he hadn't felt a pulse before: his left shoulder blade, the sole of his foot, behind his ear.

Having taken her time, Lenore now was perched directly in front of him. The fact that he could almost feel her knee touching his could have spurred a stallion, had it the same force of his heartbeat. She carefully leaned toward him and took off his glasses, folding them with care and glancing at the glass. "Bifocals?" she asked.

How he found his voice was a complete mystery. Inside, he was full of rubber bands stretched with tension; if she moved an inch closer, the touch she made might be able to pluck "Mary Had a Little Lamb" from the tight strings. "Vision's perfect from far away," he said, voice surprisingly level for the mess he was inside. "Just need them for reading, watchmaking."

She nodded and placed the glasses on the coffee table before them, but didn't look away once. The intensity of their eye contact make him dizzy, head swirling in a pool of sparkling sand. Her hands, small and delicate, held his face on either side as she looked over his face carefully. The place her hands met his flesh was buzzing with electricity that only Gabriel seemed to feel. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Memorizing you," she whispered back. He'd never noticed before how thrilling a whisper could be. Or how such a beautiful noise could make him so afraid and delirious at once. "I could never forget the way I feel around you, so I want to make sure I never forget your face, either."

Those words... they were so real. So alive. The strings inside his stomach, stretched nearly to the breaking point with nervous tension, were playing out a symphony from this touch. It took the courage of an army to reach his fingers up to that level and place them over hers. Gently, he pulled her white hands away from his face, relocating them on his shoulders. It was his turn. His eyes had been driven mad watching her work her magic, and had, in return, memorized plenty. They'd remember her no matter what, so he focused on what his lips would remember instead.

Everything he felt was as though put under a magnifying glass, his nerves sensing everything as if from the crest of an ocean wave, the brink at the top of a cliff. After the kiss broke, he chuckled, a laugh Lenore hadn't meant to spur this time. She, in fact, didn't even know what it was that had amused him so. "What?" she asked.

"You taste like grape juice," he whispered, and kissed her again. The top of her head, her eyelids, her nose, her lips, and further on in a path slowly descending. His insides were a concoction of lead and helium, flying and sinking in the same movement.

Gabriel Gray did not return home that night.


End file.
